That makes her pause, pen hovering midair. She looks up, eyes soft but unreadable.
“Because of the work you’re putting in,” she corrects.
“Still takes both.”
Something flickers in her expression before she clears her throat and turns back to her notes.
“Don’t push too hard tonight. The travel can spike swelling.”
I almost smile. “You ever turn it off?”
“No,” she says, a trace of humor in her voice. “You’d fall apart if I did.”
“Probably.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full, heavy with everything we’re not saying.
She starts to pack up, wiping down the table, logging data on her tablet. I should get up, move, do something, but I can’t make myself leave yet.
“Charlotte,” I say, before I can stop it.
She looks over, waiting.
“Thanks,” I murmur. “For being here. For making this… not miserable.”
“High praise.” She says it like a joke, but her eyes soften. “I’ll take it.”
She reaches for her tablet, back in work mode, like she didn’t just smile at me like that.
By the time I’m back in my room, the sun’s sliding down behind the buildings.
Seattle looks softer at night, mist curling through the streetlights, the slick streets reflecting the blur of headlights and neon.
A bunch of the guys are out grabbing dinner. They asked if I wanted in, but I told them I’d catch them tomorrow. Truth is, I needed a slower night: ice, compression, quiet.
My brace is propped on the chair beside the bed, ice pack melting through a towel on my knee.
The game film runs muted on the TV, showing highlights I’ve already seen twice. The win feels good, but the kind that doesn’t last long. In the playoffs, it never does.
My phone buzzes beside me. A message from Sophie. It’s a picture of her and Maya holding up their musical costumes, both of them grinning.
We practiced again today. You’re totally gonna cry when we sing.
I huff out a small laugh. That kid. She knows I don’t cry.
Another text lights the screen.
Ice for fifteen, light stretch before bed. See you in the morning.
Charlotte. No emojis. No fluff. Just her, the only person who can make those words sound like something more.
What I want to say isn’t professional at all.
I want to tell her she’s the best part of my day. That I can still taste her on my lips. That every time I see her name on my screen, the noise in my head quiets down.
Instead, I type back:
Done. Thanks, Charlie.
